


Meet me Here

by Antelotte



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antelotte/pseuds/Antelotte
Summary: Oikawa Tooru has trouble sleeping.Though when he does manage to dream, he meets a figure that he can't quite differentiate from reality and his imagination.A story following people who just want to hold the things they love close.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Meet me Here

**Author's Note:**

> Here I go pulling out a draft to make into a fic.

As a child, Oikawa Tooru would experience nonsensical dreams. 

They would be the kinds that would have stories with skewed timelines, cutting off and starting anew with no rhythm, and plots that would border on fantastical and unpredictable. The characters would range daily—sometimes he would star as the main protagonist and sometimes the faces he would accompany were unfamiliar.

When he would wake, scrambling to find a piece of paper, the morning would be spent to scribble and jot down fragments and slivers of the adventures, the dreams clouding more and more as the minutes ticked by. 

The afternoon activity of the day was to piece the multiple fantasies and stories together, weaving through them as a master author before showcasing them with grand gestures, amateur sound effects, mismatched props, and the tone of an aged storyteller, their face shrouded in flames and shadow as they told their tale. He made it his duty to tell everyone and anyone who would sit still long enough and listen: the mother and father, the doting sister, the quiet dog, the neighborhood cats, the boy who grinned at him like he was— 

His mother would chalk it up to be his growing imagination, running wild in the space that anything he wills to exist could and whatever antics impossible was deemed possible. He didn’t know whether to agree or not at the time, but nodded anyways because that sounded like fun, making the impossible possible. 

Every night as the moon peaked, he crawled into bed and laid awake too jittery and thrumming with anticipation.

“What adventure would I conjure this time?”

“Where will the dreamscape take me today?”

“Why couldn’t I remember the stories afterwards?” And the infamous:

_‘How will I manage to fall asleep at this rate Ma?’ Oikawa would constantly whine. ‘I’m wasting time, I’m wasting time! I need to go to sleep im-med-i-at-ly!”_

Bless his mother for having the patience of a monk and always replying:

_‘You haven’t closed your eyes yet Tooru. You can’t dream with your eyes open, now can you?’_

He would screw his eyes shut at the remark and tuck the blanket tight under his chin, nose crinkling at the effort. On nights when he was extra antsy, he’d even ask her to tuck the blankets around the sides and snug under his feet as if it would send him unconscious quicker. As the seconds passed by, the heat behind his ears would get unbearable, but he figured that sacrifices had to be made and stayed in that burrito for as long as he could muster, a child’s will seemingly unbreakable. Someone along the way commented that Oikawa resembled a caterpillar to which he would huff and puff. 

_‘Well, you look like a porcupine!’_

_‘…That’s way cooler.’_

_‘…You’re right.’_

Then, he would chant in his head for sleep, sometimes even pleading with whoever would make this process faster, bargaining for the hours of the day in favor of just a few more during the night. He wouldn’t guess it at that age, but if someone told him that the craving for sleep wouldn’t disappear, he probably would’ve followed his mother’s advice more and, well, slept while he had the chance. 

_‘You are such a restless sleeper.’_ His mother would claim. And the words still ring true. 

Even now when he glances at the upright phone, tapping on the screen, he squints at the white 5:22AM staring back at him, wishing he really had made a pact with some otherworldly entity because the burning behind his lids is utterly scorching. 

He shifts a bit, skin damp and the sheets damper, and wrestles with the blankets tangled between his legs. The pillow feels too warm, and the black-out curtains serve no point since how does one block out their own thoughts for the comfort of sleep? Forcing his limbs still and the traffic in his thoughts to do the same, he closes his eyes for another minute, enveloped in the dark, and the familiar twinge of sleep creeps in the corner. It’s creeping up more, invading white space like ink on paper—then he hears the first signs of the birds chirping that will no doubt continue for the next 3 hours, timely as usual. 

Anyone who knows Oikawa knows how much of a light sleeper he is. And does he dread it.

Whipping the sheets off, he pushes up to sit and hangs his legs off the side, feeling like the desert has inhabited the back of his eyes, scorching and in need of water. There’s a burning in his throat too, bubbling deep in his chest. 

No, you don’t. You don’t get to—

His jaw unhinges around the biggest yawn that night, the distaste of it leaving his throat dry. 

Well, fuck Tooru, you lost your chance. You can’t go complaining now. 

He rubs his eyelids with the back of his hands in an effort to keep the sleep away, attempting to shrug the early drowse off. Mute clusters of dots and lines blur his vision temporarily before fading away as he fixes his attention on the time. 

5:25AM.

Pushing off the bed, his joints pop and groan at the movement as he foregoes his usual grumbling to the shower and swipes the pill bottle on the way. He flicks the light switch before he can think of the repercussions and is left blinking the blinding sensation away. A bottle of lotion drops to the floor in his blind swipe for the eye drops and makes the idle promise to pick it up later. 

A pill and a cold shower later, he’s nudging the balcony door open with the tip of a watering can with a full bottle of eye drops in his pocket. 

It’s another Tuesday and another morning that has come too soon.

* * *

“Uhm, I love just sitting here, but are we going to talk about,” Sugawara pauses, his eyes darting to the figures on either side, “whatever this is?” 

Oikawa doesn’t flinch as Matsukawa and Hanamaki simultaneously rest their arms on his shoulders, boxing him in on the patchwork couch, and gulps down some more caffeine before speaking.

“I’m not sure what to tell you, but I do know that I don’t ask anymore.” 

Squinting his eyes, Sugawara leans back in his armchair and tries not to bite the end of his straw, taking in the picture that was them three. He wishes he could take an actual picture. 

Ten minutes ago, Oikawa had been recalling the stray cats that had been lurking behind the hardware store located next to his apartment complex. The landlady pointed them out on a run, saddened at the thought of them abandoned. Although he couldn’t take them in, it didn’t stop him from digging up the cans of tuna from the pantry. No one was going to eat them anyways. 

“This one’s Marco,” Oikawa coos at his phone, pointing at an American shorthair, “and that one’s Terror.” 

Two tabby cats and a refill later, Sugawara glanced up and choked on the last remnants of his coffee, his chest heaving to regain function at the sight of Hanamaki and Matsukawa pressed up against the glass directly located behind Oikawa. 

“Is there a bug?” he had squawked before whirling around to meet something even worse. 

Two bugs.

The two, cloaked in black head to toe, waltzed into the café and headed straight for Oikawa’s seat on the couch, plopping down onto the cushions as if invited to wearing black, blocky glasses that looked straight out of a 3D movie theater. Dressed in velvet black trench coats, the two were obvious outliers in the casual set café. They even smelled of sharp air freshener, the kind that stings your nose, and mirrored each other’s relaxed face, their intentions hidden behind the tinted plastic. A waiter passed by and, taking in the odd spectacle, visibly jerked and rushed to the back to presumably report to a manager. 

The sound of an empty cup sputtered out for a moment before Oikawa seemed to have his fill of the silence and pointed out the obvious. “You two look like cockroaches.” 

Suga squinted, but relented, finding the similarities. 

“Resilient.” Matsukawa quips.

“Hardy.” Hanamaki assists. 

“Generally not tolerated by the mass public,” Oikawa comments, swatting at their arms. “And get off me, you guys stink. Did you drown in a vat of cologne?” Setting the coffee cup down, Sugawara sighs through his nose. “It smells like that really artificial lemon scent from cleaning products. But triple that.” After failing to get their arms off, Oikawa crosses his arms and suffers his fate as Hanamaki and Matsukawa strangle him in their grasp. He tries not to cringe at their attempt to rub the scent on his shoulders, knowing it’ll just motivate them. “You’re overexaggerating. People love that smell.”

“I can feel my nose burning.” 

“Let me help you then.” 

Hanamaki’s in the middle of suffocating Oikawa, pinching his nose and squeezing his mouth shut, all the while Matsukawa fishes his phone out, the telltale clicks of pictures ringing out. Suga’s just received the picture from him when a figure approaches their table. 

“I would hate to ruin your conversation, but I can’t help that my frazzled employee came to me with some well-founded concerns.” 

With a tray in hand, Akaashi’s at the table with the eyes of someone who’s seen this too many a times. The frazzled employee's head can be seen poking out from behind the kitchen’s door. 

Matsukawa leans away from Oikawa’s batting hands and grins. “Hey Akaashi. How’s work been?” 

“It’s seen better,” a bell rings and Akaashi greets the new customers before turning back, “but it’ll be stellar if I don’t have to call the police today.” 

The aforementioned waiter meets the new customers and leads them to a table on the other side of the room, passing Oikawa sprawled on the table puffing for air, Hanamaki patting his back. Sugawara mouths a ‘sorry’. 

“Keiji,” Oikawa gasps out, “kick these two out! They’re ruining my day with Kou-chan.” 

“That depends,” he hums. “are you two here as paying customers?” 

Matsukawa pretends to think about it, a pout to his lips, before nodding. Hanamaki certainly doesn’t object and holds out a peace sign.

“Two shots of liquid hell please.” 

Oikawa doesn’t have the time to question it as Akaashi slinks back to the kitchen. Matsukawa has a smug look on his face but he’s not having it today.

Huffing, Oikawa turns his nose up. 

“Fine, we’ll just leave. We already finished the coffee anyways.” 

Sugawara blinks and offers a simple shrug. “Nah, I’ll stay.” 

“Kou-chan!” he turns to see him blink innocently. 

Hanamaki offers him a pat on the shoulder across the table and smooths out the crease in his collar. “You’re a good man Sugawara.” 

“Call me Suga.” 

Oikawa’s pushing down the whine that’s threatening to escape his throat when Matsukawa joins the conversation. 

“Suga, our delightful ray of sunshine, what are your plans today?” There’s a sly nature to his lips. “Feel like ditching with us?” 

Gasping, Oikawa reaches across the table to cling to his arms. “You care for me, don’t you?” 

“I’d trade you for a bag of shrimp chips.” 

Hanamaki’s chuckling with no restraint directly in Oikawa’s ears as Matsukawa nods sagely. 

“Hmm, that sounds fair.” Matsukawa snaps as a thought flickers. “But, I would rather trade for some grilled pineapple or something. That’s some magical food.” 

Sugawara elates. “There was some last month at a barbeque and let me tell you, I wholeheartedly agree.” 

“You guys are too high maintenance. What about simple booze?” 

“I’m not sure if you know what high maintenance means there Hiro.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t alcohol the most expensive?” Sugawara nods his head. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”

“I don’t know what kind of booze you guys are buying. I get the cheap stuff,” Hanamaki explains, “You know, gas station material.” 

Matsukawa leans forward and catches his attention. “You’re worth more than gas station beer Hiro.” 

“Issei, you spoil me too much.” 

“Ah, you’re right.”

Sugawara perks up at a thought. “Oh, we should go to a bar tonight! All this talks reminding me that I never get to go.”

“Suga, why haven’t I met you sooner? You’re just brimming with good ideas.” 

The bell rings again along with Oikawa’s patience. Palms outstretched, he slaps the table and grumbles, lips curled in distaste. 

“Okay, okay. You’ve convinced us, we’ll stay."

Sugawara raises an eyebrow. “I was going to stay—”

“But switch sides with Kou-chan—you guys are hogging him.” 

A beat passes. “Are you jealous?”

“Makki!”

“Suga, dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was so clingy. We should’ve stepped in sooner.” Hanamaki reaches for Sugawara’s shoulder once again, looking like an ashamed parent. 

Offering some support, Matsukawa reaches around for his shoulder and squeezes. “It’s not our fault Hiro; Oikawa here needs to learn boundaries. It’s a shame, but we have to be strong.” 

Sugawara chuckles and plays along. “The constant calls I get from him is really starting to irritate me. Has he ever done that to you two?”

Gasping, Hanamaki grasps his heart in mock pain.

“Issei, it appears we’re too late. The poor boy’s been getting the calls.” Sniffling, Matsukawa leans his back on Oikawa and mockingly wails. 

“Oikawa, my boy, you need to stop terrorizing this young man. He has a life outside you.” 

He stubbornly pushes the weight back, his head knocking against Matsukawa’s. “You two have been the ones terrorizing me! Stop texting me weird stuff!”

Amid Sugawara’s chuckling, Hanamaki shares a questioning glance at Matsukawa before the table rattles from the tray Akaashi sets down. 

“Two shots of utter fire,” Akaashi passes out. “Bottoms up.”

True to the name, the liquid is a pretty amber color, deep and caramelized, and tempts Oikawa to lean in closer, only to immediately regret it. 

Jerking back in his chair, he can already feel his eyes watering at the aroma’s bite. It’s stronger than the cleaning products that Matsukawa and Hanamaki seem to be doused in and shoves a much more invasive odor down his throat. The scent makes his nose crinkle at the spice it exudes despite the liquid’s pretty golden amber shade— a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Matsukawa takes the shot in his hands and twirls the amber liquid around the rim. He sees his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and Hanamaki bite his cheek at the sight. Sugawara’s silent, but observant at the inner turmoil the two seem to be undergoing. Similarly, Akaashi seems impartial to the scene that’s unfolding, but hours later Oikawa will compare his role much to a reaper, patiently waiting for the inevitable with no way to intervene. 

The two seem to mentally prepare themselves as they finally grip the shots and clink them together, a glance exchanged as their heads tip back, glass to their lips. The liquid disappears in just a second and the glasses are back on the table in another. Their faces don’t hint at the taste, no twitch nor furrow, but anyone could imagine the shudder that runs through their shoulders and down their spine.

“…Hey?” 

Oikawa turns to look at Matsukawa’s face more clearly and jolts back just in time to see him jump up and run in the direction of the restrooms, Hanamaki scrambling from the cushions to follow. Akaashi’s already a step back, the tray neatly tucked against his arm as he watches the door to the restroom shut with a definitive click. 

Sugawara’s staring at the empty shot glasses, but there’s nothing except for a drop of amber at the bottom. Before anyone can say anything, he takes the closest one and swipes the bead on his finger. 

“Wait, Ko—”

The finger is on the tip of his tongue and he’s quick to run it against the roof of his mouth. His tongue audibly clicks when Sugawara turns to Akaashi and gestures to the glass: “Can I get one?”

There aren’t any words to explain the confusion that overwhelms them. 

Akaashi’s eyes widen a fraction and Oikawa’s mouth gapes open. 

“A-Are you okay?” He takes the shot glass from his grasp and takes a whiff. Nope, still the same abhorrent smell. “Here, open your mouth—is your tongue made of steel? You didn’t have any reaction!”

The crazy man’s laughing as he catches the hands moving towards his face. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he repeats. “It was just a little drop anyways.” 

Akaashi has a tiny furrow in his eyebrow as well, leaning down to check Suga’s reaction at level. “Are you sure you’re alright? That shot is fairly… concentrated.” 

Sugawara assures he’s fine for the third time, but it’s not enough. 

“I know you like spicy food, but even that stuff’s tame to—to whatever this is!” Oikawa pushes the shot glasses back towards Akaashi. “The smell’s enough to make adults cry. I’m serious, open your mouth. Can tongues get third-degree burns?” 

He’s chuckling again, Oikawa’s hands kneading at his cheeks like a chipmunk, just a moment before the door to the restroom swings open with a thud. A mild-looking Hanamaki marches out, passes Akaashi and rounds the table to lounge back on the couch next to Oikawa, one leg crossed over the other. He scratches the back of his head and in response to the curious stares, claps his hands. “So, questions?”

“What the hell, Makki?”

“Use your words Tooru.” 

Sugawara’s leaning his chin in his palm, an excited energy thrumming. “What’s in the shot?”

“Oof, beats me. Akaashi’s the very generous supplier here.” 

They both glance at the man in question. 

“Akaashi?” 

He shrugs and rights the tray. “I can’t tell you the exact ingredients, but I’m legally bound to obtain a signed waiver from the customer before handing them out.” 

“Ooh, a special. Can I sign one?”

Hanamaki whistles. “You are brimming with bright ideas.” 

“Wait, hold on. How long have you even been drinking these?” Oikawa’s crouching over the table with a look of exasperation. 

“Let me think. Maybe around a year ago? What do you think Issei?” 

“Definitely a year.” Plopping down in his original seat, Matsukawa’s looking the same as before, albeit a little flushed red and hair mussed back. He’s tapping a finger against the side of the glass before stopping abruptly. “Actually no, scratch that—nine months. It’s been nine months.” 

Oikawa sighs. “I just—why?” Sugawara perks up and agrees. 

“Yeah, you guys should’ve gone to an actual bar later tonight. I didn’t even know this place sold alcohol.”

“No, that’s not the point.”

“You’re right,” Hanamaki nods, sagely. “I should be able to have my fun even if it is daylight out.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Akaashi finally takes a little pity on Oikawa and speaks up. 

“The shot’s not alcoholic. It’s advertised as a,” he quotes, “rejuvenation energy shot. It’s intended effect is similar to an energy drink.”

“I’ve never heard of an energy drink that has such extreme aftereffects.”

Messing with a lock of Oikawa’s hair, Matsukawa glances at the customers from across the room, his attention wandering to each one for a lack of anything else to do. “It’s got a real kick; I can tell you that. Not too bad though after the initial ten seconds. Hiro?” 

He mulls over the statement and finds himself nodding. “Yeah, I can back that up. But a second later and I’d be ruining one of your lovely plants in the hallway there—sorry for last time Akaashi.” Bowing their heads, they make apologetic gestures to the tired manager, who’s looking to be reliving the painful past, before turning to a curious Sugawara. 

“So, after each time, you actually throw up?” He’s far too excited at this point to Oikawa’s disgust. He curbs the urge to slap his shoulder. 

“No we do not, my new friend. Most of the times, the shot settles down pretty well, but today it was pretty terrible.” Hanamaki ends with a grin. 

“Like drinking gasoline laced with Satan’s personal stock of rubbing alcohol.” Matsukawa adds on. 

“Not for everyone—do not recommend,” they both drone out. 

Sugawara hums and leans in again. “Not that I’m against a little fun, but you two sure have a masochistic streak.” 

“Actually yeah, again, what the hell guys? Doesn’t it mess with your throats or something?” 

Hanamaki shrugs at this and looking too amused at Oikawa’s reactions, drawls out a lazy, “For fun?”

Akaashi’s setting the empty glasses on his tray when he comments. “It’s not supposed to necessarily make someone throw up. However, from some of our more sensitive customer’s experiences, I’ve heard it flushes out the alcohol currently in their systems or from the night before.” 

A moment passes as the information settles in. “So… it’s basically a—”

“Hangover medicine!” 

“Ding, ding, ding,” Matsukawa sounds out. “We have a winner.” 

Oikawa’s grumbling in his hands, something along the lines of ‘Icantbelievethis’, as Sugawara preens. “I’d like a hangover shot as a prize please.” 

“No, you’re not getting anything and you two are dirty, dirty influences,” Oikawa wails. “You two are actually hungover looking like weird cockroaches, I can’t believe this. Don’t you have work today Mattsun? Shame!” 

Matsukawa’s looking pleased as he finishes thanking Akaashi, the latter walking back to the kitchen, and undoes the buttons of his trench coat in a quick swoop, a smirk plastered on his face. Underneath, he reveals a white lab coat, his picture stamped on a laminated name tag clipped to the breast pocket. “Just came back from a night shift, so technically I did.” 

He’s not immune from the hand that slaps his shoulder and tacks on, “I didn’t drink on the job; you have my sincere trust. I can be responsible.” 

Hanamaki’s grinning wide and leans his head on Oikawa’s shoulder, patting his thigh. “I picked him up at the hospital and we went bar hopping a little.” He takes off the sunglasses and folds it into his pocket. “We were at the Mido bar when I saw your cute Instagram photo and decided to come visit.”  
Damn it, he really shouldn’t have uploaded that picture. 

“Hmm,” Sugawara stares pointedly. “That doesn’t explain your trench coats though.” 

Matsukawa takes his glasses off as well, a suggestive glint in his eyes. “We made a few stops in between.”

Sugawara’s eyebrow raises, a question on his tongue, before Oikawa intervenes. “Don’t want to know. You two are still dirty influences and I don’t want you tainting Kou-chan with your antics.” 

Matsukawa huffs and pulls on his ear. “If I recall correctly, you’ve been included in those antics too, ya know.” 

Oikawa yanks back, cupping his ear in response. “I was innocent in those and I refuse to say otherwise.”

“Is that so?” There’s that smirk Oikawa wants to wipe off. “Hiro, you remember that week in Jeju?” 

Oikawa’s scrambling to shove his hands in front of the other’s mouth, hoping to choke them first.

“Oh, Issei, do I? I have the videos of him—” 

“Shut your mouths you heathens. All I’m going to say is that you should stop drinking those disgusting shots.” Oikawa crosses his arms, pout evident.  
“They’re gonna ruin your insides.” 

Chuckling, Matsukawa’s reaching for Oikawa’s collar, fingers flicking a loose thread. Very touchy today he seems. “Thanks for your concern, but you should worry about yourself first.”

“I’m the perfect image of health.” 

“Really? This is coming from you?” 

Oikawa’s persistent. “Yeah, it is.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how bloodshot your eyes are.” 

Sugawara’s immediately leaning closer across the table when Oikawa’s hands shoot up to cover his eyes. “I-Is it that obvious?” he whines. “They weren’t red when I left the apartment!” 

Peeking his eyes through his fingers, he sees Sugawara’s searching eyes directly in front. He clicks his tongue and leans back with a conclusion, a heavy sigh escaping. “They’re not red at all.” 

It’s then that he realizes what he just admitted too. There’s probably no point in backtracking but, who can blame him for trying?

Oikawa clears his throat and straightens his shirt, exuding the confidence that he doesn’t have, and begins. “I know that sounded weird, but I have been—”  
“Are you stupid or are you stupid?”

Shot down immediately. 

Sugawara’s the first to scold him. “Do I need to come over and make sure you sleep? I don’t know what kind of fancy eye drops you use but fuck off with those and actually rest for a bit, please.”

“It’s really not all that bad; Mattsun’s overexaggerating!”

“Two months ago I drove you back from the hospital cause’ you fainted from over exhaustion.”

“It’s gotten better! Plus that can happen to anyone.” 

“Tooru, I swear to god—”

Waving a hand, Oikawa adopts a flippant tone. “It’s fine, it’s fine! The pills that Mattsun’s been giving me are actually working. I got black-out curtains and incense and lavender—”

“If they were working like you just said, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

He tries, “I’ll get a humidifier?”

“Tooru, you should be the first to know that those may be nice additions, but at the end of the day they won’t do jack shit. Severe sleep deprivation can’t be solved with a couple of sprits of lavender oil!”

“I just haven’t been taking them that regularly—look I’ll be more consistent with it.”

A look of disbelief from Sugawara. 

“I’ll set alarms for it and everything!” 

Before Sugawara rips into another tangent, Matsukawa’s pulling a loose thread from Oikawa’s collar and dropping it on a napkin, patting it down. “Alright, I may have started this forest fire intentionally, but Akaashi will actually kill all of us if we cause more trouble for today. We can yell some more later.”  
Sugawara slouches back in his seat and mutters. “I can take him.”

Ignoring that comment, Matsukawa levels Oikawa with a lazy grin.

“Hey, if they aren’t giving you the best sleep, just text me and we’ll work something else out. You don’t need to keep taking them if they aren’t helping.”

A pause. “I know, I will. Just,” a longer pause, “give me a couple of days?”

There must’ve been something present on Oikawa’s face when Matsukawa sighs and lays off with a simple:

“Keep in touch.”

Finding sincerity in Matsukawa’s words, Oikawa nods and exhales. There is no scorn compared to Sugawara’s wrath and Oikawa has lived through far too many. 

With that out of the way—

“I don’t know how the conversation took the turn here, but let’s make a 180! Makki!” Oikawa points to find a surprised Hanamaki. “Pull up the video!” 

Recognition flashes in his eyes and a mischievous smirk takes over his face. “… You don’t mean?”

A solemn but determined nod from Oikawa seals the deal. 

Before Oikawa can change his mind, Hanamaki whips his phone out with glee. 

“Alright!” he cheers. “Suga, I hope you like tone deaf renditions of K-pop tunes cause’ Oikawa drills them out when he’s drunk.” 

Contrary to Sugawara’s suspicion in the beginning, by the end he’s a snickering mess, eyes tearing at the image of Oikawa holding an impromptu concert, empty bottle as a stand-in mic, for cheery drunks and drowsy elderlies. Oikawa’s burrowed in his arms by then, cheeks burning, and refusing to look at the screen a second longer as Hanamaki starts singing along to the concert’s chaotic queue, Matsukawa clapping to the beat. He denies that he ever screeches when his duet with another drunk comes on screen.

An hour passes when Akaashi’s patience for the growing noise runs thin and it’s when he aggressively places the check on the table, the group agree they’ve overstayed their welcome. 

Oikawa’s checking his backpack that all his belongings are stowed away properly when Matsukawa towers over him, sliding the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose before he has time to blink. 

“Well, I wouldn’t have guessed,” Matsukawa clicks a fingernail on the lens. He makes a show of leaning in close and observing his face from different angles before a lazy smile appears. “Glasses is a good look for you.”

Oikawa reels back his surprise and clears his throat.

“Of course they are. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Nah, Nah,” Hanamaki says. “It’s a better look on Suga.” 

He steps aside to reveal Suga with Hanamaki’s glasses on, modeling the blocky shades with pursed lips and arms cocked at his waist. They have a stare off to determine the best model, but it quickly gets postponed for another day as Akaashi looms ever so closer. 

Matsukawa murmurs in his best attempt at an accent, “The sheriffs onto us—we gotta scatter.” 

As he removes the shades, Oikawa notices it’s not the bulky ones he strolled into the café with earlier. They’re different, the frames sleeker and lens thin. It makes his eyebrows furrow, a spark of familiarity tinging the tip of his tongue, but the feeling’s gone as soon as it was kindled as Matsukawa pockets them.  
Out of sight, out of mind.

The waiter from before chirps, “Have a lovely evening!”

And the bell rings with their exit.

They make their way about a block away from the café when Hanamaki and Suga turn onto a sidewalk, slowing their pace down alongside a white cement wall as their conversation amps up a few strides ahead. It’s truly the middle of June, sweat already dampening the back of his shirt as Oikawa lifts his hand to skim against the wall as he walks, the tiles cool to the touch. Matsukawa’s scuffing his feet as he walks beside him against the ground and Oikawa wonders if it’s boredom or restlessness that’s causing his oxford shoes to suffer. They don’t deserve the marks they’ll get either way. 

As the evening settles in, the stretch of lampposts on his left flicker on one by one, lines of paper lanterns strung high up between them, and illuminates the vast illustration drawn across the wall’s entirety. It makes Oikawa stop in his step. 

In chalks of different hues, there are fireworks littering the sky overhead a line of colorful stalls and games. Among the stalls are festival goers sporting yukatas, some uniform in color and others brimming with intricate designs and dyes, as well as drummers and dancers. It never ceases to amaze Oikawa the detail each figure has and the time it must’ve took to blend the right colors. 

“That’s pretty soon.” Oikawa had thought Matsukawa went ahead of him. 

“What?”

“The festival.” Matsukawa points out a flyer he didn’t notice on the wall. “It’s coming up next month.” 

A local advertisement for a floating lantern festival held right here in Tokyo. Oikawa’s eyes light up, the memories flooding in. 

“Oh. Yeah, it’s the same one that we went to three years ago.” 

Matsukawa hums. “The same one that Kunimi got separated from us?” 

“That’s the one,” Oikawa can’t help the nostalgia fill his face. “His phone was dead, so we ended up finding him at the lost and found booth later.” 

“I’m still convinced that he got lost on purpose,” he replies. 

“Why?”

“We found him at that booth loaded with masks and game prizes. I’m pretty sure the attendants were feeding him too—that sneaky child knew what he was doing.” Ah, that’s true now that he thinks about it. 

When the group finally caught sight of Kunimi’s head above the crowd, they found him covered in trinkets: three masks strapped to his head along with a kite, paper fans, water balloons, two bags of assorted sugar candy, as well as the attendant close by offering a caramel apple, little flecks of rock salt sprinkled on the top. As the treat was close to becoming Kunimi’s, Oikawa didn’t miss the opportunity to sweep him away by the arm, thanking the attendant for looking after him. Even if it was a little petty, Oikawa deemed it a worthy punishment for leaving the group. To this day, he still owes him the candied treat.

Looking at the elaborate illustration again, the stripes of fireworks bright and familiar, Oikawa is reminded again of that night and how refreshing it was to catch up with the old team, especially the ones that live a bit farther. They have a group chat that doesn’t go unused for at least three days at a time, but it can’t compare to the late nights in the gym, delirious with adrenaline and lukewarm energy drinks. He would be an idiot for not suggesting it—he’s way too homesick for his own good.

“Hey Mattsun, why don’t we go to the festival this year?”

No response. Away from the colorful fireworks depicted, Matsukawa’s gaze is down at something cradled in his hand, a step back from Oikawa’s left. 

“Mattsun?” 

Without even so much as a blink, Matsukawa is looking at him, revealing his palm. There sit the innocent sunglasses that he slipped on from before, the lamppost reflected in the lens. 

Oikawa waits for any explanation, maybe a nod or a grunt, but he doesn’t get anything, a bit wary from the sudden development. He’s not very familiar with the stoic face Matsukawa’s showing him, never even displayed when discussing his absent sleep schedule, and darts his eyes back and forth, the glasses to his eyes in case he misses a telltale twitch. His hand juts out again and Oikawa’s pressured to pick up the glasses, pinching the frames between his thumb and middle finger. 

It’s heavier than he would’ve guessed, but it still has a pleasant weight to it. The lens is tinted black but is still translucent enough to see through.  
Upon closer inspection, the frames are comprised of a black metal, perhaps with a plating of chrome, curving around the lens and sharply to the sides, a few scratches marking the tips. Turning to the right, Oikawa cranes in the low light to discover a word etched into the side, a carving too handmade to be of the original design, that reads—

“Keep it,” Matsukawa says to Oikawa’s unsaid question. “It suits you more.”

Low light or not, Oikawa likes to think that he has a good read on his friends. The years of being stuffed into a sweaty gym probably helped with that, but Oikawa fancies the idea that he’s a bit more observant than others may believe. So when Matsukawa nonchalantly, or rather tries to be nonchalant, offers a pair of quite beautiful sunglasses with no reason other than the goodness of his heart, it frankly sends alarms ringing in his head. 

Oikawa knows that in a true, dire situation, Matsukawa would be one of the people who stuck around when it counted, ready to toss fists if needed, but, really? The man’s gifting sunglasses without teasing him? No jokes? No nothing? 

What’s the catch?

“You flatter me Mattsun,” he notices his foot is still scuffing the ground. “I didn’t know you paid attention to me so much.” 

He shrugs, overseeing the firework illustrations. “It’s hard not to by how much you whine, really.”

Oikawa stifles a gasp. “That hurts a little, but it’s okay. That doesn’t erase the fact that you pay attention.”

“And what about it?” 

“Well, I couldn’t help but think that this is very uncharacteristic of you.”

“What, giving you glasses?” Matsukawa deadpans. “They’re glasses, not my birth certificate.”

“Without any catch?”

“Earlier they fit you right and I don’t want them anymore—simple as that.”

Oikawa’s not convinced, eyes scrutinizing. “Why not give them to Makki?”

“You saw; he already has a pair.”

“Why don’t you keep it?”

“Did you just not hear that I don’t want them anymore?”

Oikawa asks just in case. “Who did you steal these glasses from?”

Matsukawa knowingly snickers, that asshole. “No one.”

“Are you sure,” Oikawa quips. “I swear if someone knocks my door down because—”

“Seriously, they’re not stolen.”

At least Oikawa gets that assurance. He doesn’t even want the slightest chance of that last incident—his door still has the baseball dent to remind him of it every time he wants to shower.

“Then where did you get them?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Answer the questions Mattsun. This is insurance.”

He blows air out of his mouth. “It was a gift. I don’t know where it’s from, or what brand, if you care.”

“…Someone I know?”

Matsukawa takes a bit longer to answer, his attention fixed faraway. “I don’t think so.”

Oikawa hums for a lack of more questions as a wind chime trickles out somewhere, the string of lanterns swaying with the breeze. The movement is mesmerizing and gentle and is just what catches Oikawa’s attention amidst the thoughts circulating.

A part of him believes that this is a form of apology from Matsukawa for outing him earlier for his continuous sleepless nights. They’ve discussed this plenty, ranging from interrogations during dinners to little updates over the phone, never in public or in front of a third party. Oikawa’s close friends know from varying degrees, Sugawara and Hanamaki being the first, but it certainly caught him off guard that it came from Matsukawa himself. He doesn’t want an apology—Oikawa knows far too well it was his fault and no one else’s for slipping up, but it’s endearing to think about Matsukawa mulling over one all the same. 

The pair are still in his hands and with a quick stretch of his arm, it could be Matsukawa’s again. Maybe Sugawara would like them.

But damn it, they are awfully pretty and, strange or not, the sunglasses still tug at a familiar chord in his chest.

Oikawa can’t precisely identify it, but it doesn’t deter him from the thought of owning them in the slightest. 

He can amp up his bratty personality again, maybe dig into his character more and list distant relatives and friends that deserve the shades more, but Oikawa relents with a sigh and a twitch of his lips. “You really want me to have them?” He hopes he doesn’t look too expectant. 

Matsukawa settles his attention on Oikawa again and nods. 

“If you don’t mind the little scratches, then consider them yours.”

That manages to quirk Oikawa’s lips for real as a small smile spread across his face, sheepish at how seriously he questioned the other’s motives. “Thanks Mattsun. I actually really do like them.” He holds them up to the light and watches the light filter through the lens, absently tracing the curve with his thumb. There’s that feeling again. 

“Man, that took forever—was that so hard to say thank you?” Matsukawa stretches his back. “You’re so paranoid over a pair of sunglasses.”

Oikawa squawks. “You can’t blame me, after all the stuff you’ve done.”

Smoothing his hair back, he shrugs. “I practically gave you an early birthday present and you questioned my credibility. So ungrateful.” 

“Earlier you called Kunimi sneaky, but I think you’re the sneaky one.”

“I can take them back you know.”

He pockets the lens on reflex and mutters under his breath. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh now you’ve done it.” Matsukawa’s towering over him in a second and lunges for the glasses. Stretching his arms out, Oikawa makes use of his legs to push at Matsukawa’s torso as far as he can, trying his best to dodge the lanky limbs with a similar panic akin to someone being tickled.

“Go away!” Oikawa yelps between chortles. “You can’t—you just gave them to me—no fair.”

Matsukawa’s hands are patting his sides, digging into his pockets, all the while having Oikawa’s hands pushing up at his jaw, his voice coming out slightly muffled. “You did this to yourself.”

At this point, Matsukawa’s not even searching for them anymore, satisfied at simply seeing the tears forming in Oikawa’s eyes, his cheeks flushed and eyes shut. He’s wheezing for breath, cackling at the slightest dig into his sides, and can’t form the words necessary to scream murder. 

Shoulders strained from the odd angle, Matsukawa finally backs off and leans on the cement wall across from his sprawled form, careful to not rub off the chalk. It doesn’t compare to the recovery Oikawa needs from that fit, chest heaving with excess giggles. 

“…. Fuck you Mattsun,” he sighs out. The ground probably isn’t the best place to lay down, but his abs really can’t afford to support him right now. The ground is surprisingly cool anyways. He pats his hand on his pocket and finds the shape of the shades still there. “They’re… still here.”

“Happy birthday, you filthy animal.”

He’s still panting. “God, I hate you so much right now. Just wait until…. I can breathe.”

Matsukawa has a grin. “I’m so glad you like them, you’re welcome.”

“You’re a month early asshole.”

“Better early than late.”

Oikawa’s about to comment when he hears steps coming towards him, his vision met with fluffy grey and hazelnut. 

“Did you guys wrestle? Matsukawa really beat you up, huh.”

Ignoring his grumble, Sugawara offers a hand and with a quick pull of muscles Oikawa’s to his feet, a frown on his lips. 

“You’ll get him next time, Oikawa.”

His left side still aches and is the sole reason he doesn’t answer. Honest. 

“Issei, as much as I regret not filming whatever happened here,” Hanamaki pockets his phone, checking the time. “We gotta get going. The train’s going to leave.”

Matsukawa nods. “Yeah, fun’s over.”

Before they part ways, Sugawara proposes the idea of going to a bar another night with a simple:

“My friend from Sendai’s moving in with me! Help me celebrate and loosen him up.” 

They all agree, never ones to reject a fun night and a new face. They schedule a date that’s free for all of them and leave it at that. 

A few clicks and a contact number exchanged later, everyone’s waving goodbye, heading off to wherever they need to go; Matsukawa and Hanamaki pair off in the direction of the train station and Sugawara’s rounding the corner to his own place no more than ten minutes away. 

It takes the lamppost to flicker two more times until Oikawa can’t see Matsukawa and Hanamaki anymore, their shapes too blurry to make out. He turns around and doesn’t see Sugawara anymore.

Smoothing the back of his neck, Oikawa is thoroughly alone. 

And just like that, the electricity sparking in his veins dies down and leaves his shoulders slouching and chest heavy, the burning behind his lids running full force. He thinks his knee aches too, but that might just be the sleep deprivation speaking for him. 

‘God, I hope I pulled that off. Matsukawa’s fucking observant,’ Oikawa muses. 

When your alone, it really does amplify all your senses, emphasizing all the things you were too busy to care for. All of a sudden you are reminded of all the things and sensations you hid at the back of your mind, ready to abandon in a beat when company’s over. Maybe it’s an overdue assignment or a fight you had with a close friend. Maybe you forgot how sore you were from the workout the day before or how you haven’t seen the light of day for a week and should probably eat something else aside from cheap takeout. 

For him it’s the way his legs weigh him down rather than move him forward. It’s the feeling of being inside the apartment with his balcony door unwillingly shut because the AC bill runs too high to risk it open all the time. It’s the view of the city horizon falling oddly short of what he’s dreamed of in high school. It’s the fact that he hasn’t gotten accustomed to living alone even after five years. It’s the thought that Oikawa will crawl in bed another night without the security of knowing he’ll drift off if he shuts his eyes. It’s the solitude that really seals the deal. 

He read it in a pamphlet once while waiting in a dentist lobby—solitude brings beneficial silence where one’s able to take stock and reflect on their choices and dilemmas. One will argue that without these silences, one will lose awareness, the clarity to scope out who we are as a person and the pinpoint memories that mold our traits and define our actions. As water becomes murky over time, your thoughts will too without a little cleaning. 

It’s a valid point, but Oikawa finds these moments more stressful than not since where does he jam all the baggage and loose ends later? What happens if reflection doesn’t yield comfort and instead keeps you up at night?

It’s easy enough to jot everything in a journal, keep things organized and what not, but he finds himself at a standstill because, isn’t this exactly where he’s started? Nothing’s been answered, certainly not any loose ends, and Oikawa comes out with a headache and a bad taste in his mouth like something’s not adding up, scratching at his head to rid of the discomfort. 

He’s lived it enough times to simulate it, enough times to grow tired of fighting a fight that won’t solve anything. It’s easier to endure it than fix it at this point. 

But again, it’s a pamphlet from a dentist office and Oikawa is considerably obstinate anyways.

A helicopter drones overhead and reminds him where he is. 

There’s no need for the sunglasses anymore, the sun having set from its high point a long time ago, but nonetheless, Oikawa finds himself absently tracing the outline of it through his pocket. 

There’s a flicker in his mind, but it extinguishes as soon as it catches heat—a candle unlit. 

He would look silly on his way home, he knows. 

The sky is literally two shades from leaving him vulnerable and blind. 

‘Ah fuck it.’

Slowly unfolding the frames, he slides it on as Matsukawa had done for him earlier. The world is tinted into night instantly and the lamppost’s light turns muted—the festival drawing rendered of its colorful hues, the paper lanterns dim. 

No one’s there tell him to take it off. 

Instead, he recognizes a bubble settle at the base of his spine and pop, seeping into his bones in warm, velvet waves. Spreading outwards, he feels the warmth reach his fingertips and the tip of his nose and he realizes this is comfort. 

It nearly makes him giddy in the sensation, the feeling akin to a child wrapping a blanket around them like a cape, secure from the rest of the world’s view. And it might be that his eyes are blocked from any bouts of wind, but they don’t feel as irritated as before, everything else lowering to a background simmer. 

This is what prompts him to walk down the stretch of lampposts, past the streaks of chalk and lanterns, past the café, all the way to an empty, dreary apartment with a skip in his step for the first time in what seems like weeks. 

He prays the feeling will be preserved throughout the night and follow him into sanguine slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! Ahhhhhhhh.


End file.
